


Honesty

by BlackHolesandUnicorns



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Overcoming Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackHolesandUnicorns/pseuds/BlackHolesandUnicorns
Summary: Therion has spent a long time learning some hard lessons. Maybe it's time to startunlearninga couple.





	Honesty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LandOfMistAndSecrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandOfMistAndSecrets/gifts).

Here’s the thing:

Nothing is more fucking pathetic than lying to yourself.

He tells himself this constantly, reminds himself of how damn important it is. Because truth is, he could have avoided a whole lot of broken bones and shattered soul if he’d spent less time doing just that. Ignoring all the evidence, all the warning signs, spinning himself pretty little stories and granting guilty parties alibis. Laying awake, staring at the ceiling, just telling himself lies to avoid the possibility of the truth. He wouldn’t do that, not anymore.

And when he didn’t lie to himself, he was forced to admit that the first time… it had been good.

It had been fucking _revelatory_.

Panting in that alleyway, their ill-gotten gains clutched in bags against them, listening to the footsteps of the estate guards chasing after them. Their hearts pounding in their throats, sweat dripping down their backs, fairly quivering with tension as the steps grew louder, the shouts more urgent, the trap closing in, until… nothing. Until the cries faded, the jingling of chain mail disappeared, and the only sound had been their breaths mingling together in the dank, damp dark.

Darius had begun to laugh, high and wild and exultant. “Damn berks,” he barked. “Stumbling off on their clumsy plates, looking for what ain’t there to find. We’re ghosts, you and me, ain’t we? Ghosts in the night.”

“You and me,” Therion had repeated, and hadn’t quite been able to guard the wonder in his voice. Darius had stopped laughing abruptly, and the tension returned, thicker and more pulse-pounding than ever. Therion held his breath until he was dizzy, until his head spun and stars whirled around him. This was it. He’d showed his hand, showed his ass, and now everything was going to come to an end.

Except it hadn’t.

“You and me,” Darius echoed, his harsh voice all soft and curious and strangely, achingly sweet…

The dam between them had broken all at once, tension shattering into a million little splinters. Their sacks of loot spilled open, coins and jewelry strewn through the alleyway. Darius’s breath had been hot and moist against his face, his hands rough and calloused on his skin, and Therion can remember the way he’d wanted time to stop, to live in this moment, his heart soaring and exultant and buoyant. This was it, he’d thought, clutching the fabric at Darius’s back, whining his eager, incredulous pleasure. This was what he’d wanted for so long, and from now on, things were going to be just the way he’d always imagined they might be.

Later, after pulling their clothes back into place, after gathering their haul in breathy silence, after stumbling back to the hole where they’d been sleeping, Therion had done what he’d wanted to do for as long as he could remember. He’d hauled his blanket close to Darius, curling against his side, burying his face in the crook of his neck. He closed his eyes and basked in the warmth of him, the comfort, the closeness.

It had been even better than what they’d done with fumbling hands and stuttering breaths in the alley, until Darius had grunted and elbowed him, hard.

“Oi,” he grumbled, voice low and dismissive in the greying light of pre-dawn. “What are you, now, some sort of twist? Sod off with that.”

The words hit harder than a slap to the face, and, confused, Therion rolled over, pulling his blanket with him. He squeezed his eyes shut, stinging as he replayed the viciousness in his tone, confused and frustrated and biting back the urge to ask what was wrong, what had changed, and what was going on between them if not something that included curling together in the night? Sour fear gathered up in his belly until it overflowed and tried to claw its way up his throat. 

He swallowed it back down, and then he lied to himself until the knot had somewhat dissipated, until he was able to slide into sleep. 

But it had never been that good again, never been so unrestrained and full of possibility. Even as they got better at it, learned what they were doing, learned all the ways to make one another howl and curse and come, he never stopped cringing from the next blow. He never knew when it would come, but it always did.

He took those lessons to heart. Even after Darius, after the fall, when he’d wind up in thin beds with anonymous faces in squalid inns, he’d learned how these things went. Pick up your clothes, don’t say a word, head out into the dark, lonely night, and if you feel used and bereft and unfulfilled, well then, you’re just acting the twist, a silly little bint with fanciful ideas of dreamy romance where there is only efficiency and cold comfort.

And then,

he meets Alfyn Greengrass.

*

The big lunk gestures and calls and then whoops in pleasure when the barmaid appears to pour out another round of drinks. His smile is wide and bright and impossibly infectious, his cheeks flushed with drink and energy, his eyes glassy. It’s just a stupid drunk night, boisterous and jocular, the fifth one in a row, now, but there’s something more going on, here. Therion can feel the tension in the air, tightening by the second, fraying all the while. He notices the way Alfyn’s eyes linger on him when he thinks he isn’t paying attention, the way his tongue slips and he gets real talkative and boastful the further he goes into his cups.

He’s used to being looked at like that. He knows what that hunger lurking just behind his eyes means.

So he thinks about it, while Alfyn proudly recounts some long and meandering and barely interesting story about putting his bare hands into a catfish hole in some idiotic struggle of man against beast. He thinks about this big, dumb, handsome tenderfoot who’s going to get chewed up and spat out by the world. Imagines him with his clothes off, with his cheeks flushed red, with his eyes glassy and his pupils blown. He’d probably huff and puff, probably not be able to look right at him, and probably not exactly be a savant at it, either, big-eyed innocent that he was. Not at a lot of experience there. Probably awkward and fumbling… Therion might not even get to come.

Not worth it, the rational part of his brain decides firmly as Alfyn spreads his arms wide to indicate the size of the catfish he apparently wrestled out of the hole. If Therion wants the release, he can just pull himself off later and probably have a better time of it.

But the less rational part of him worries at it like a dog with a bone. The thought of laying on his thin little mattress in his own room, grunting and sweating and chasing a momentary high, well, it makes him feel so pathetically lonely he could curl into a damn ball and just die. Down here, near Alfyn, everything is warm and good and connected, and in this moment, everything is possible.

Maybe it could even be amazing.

When Alfyn finishes his interminable fucking catfish story and sits back all proud and self-satisfied, like he’d just finished a monologue on stage and was awaiting applause of something, Therion blows a stream of air and slides his mug across the table.

“I’m calling it,” he says. “We’re moving out early tomorrow. It’s already too late.”

Alfyn’s face falls, crumpling up like someone crushed him with their hand, and Therion feels strangely guilty. That’s the thing with this guy. When he smiles, for a second, it’s like you personally hung the sun for him. And when he frowns... 

“I guess that’s fair,” he says, sounding so damn bereft it would be funny if it didn’t actually make him feel a bit bad. “I wouldn’t wanna keep you up if you don’t wanna be here…”

_What, am I supposed to ask first? Make sure it’s okay with you if I go fucking sleep?_ he wants to snap, but manages to hold himself back. He’s self-aware enough to know that this isn’t some sort of mind game, that it’s just all the bitter voices crowded into his head telling him otherwise. The look on Alfyn’s sweet, dumb face is so sincerely, honestly disappointed.

He just wants to spend more time with him.

It’s more than tempting, and he decides, all at once, to give in.

“Walk me up to my room?” he suggests. And fuck it, why not. He puts a little spin on it, lets the last word slide lazily out of him, lowers his lashes a bit.

Alfyn is a big, dumb lout, but he seems to sense something is happening, even if he doesn’t get exactly what or why. His cheeks go all pink and he looks down into his mug, swirling it around. “Uhm,” he says, stammering a bit. “I… I dunno. I still got some mead left, here.”

Therion’s brows pull down as he reels with what feels like a pretty bald-faced rejection. He stands up. He goes to war with himself briefly, biting down the urge to snap at him. Bracing for the next punch. _Yer so bloomin’ needy._ Best way to avoid getting hit is to be the one to strike first. “Stay here and drink it, then,” he says finally, impressively even, and pushes away from the table.

He only makes it about two steps. Alfyn grabs his hand, then yanks it away like he’s been burned, still blushing like a schoolgirl. “No, wait, um. Maybe I oughta… you know, are you… will you be okay on your own?”

Therion snorts out loud. He can’t help it. “No way,” he says, putting his hand on the back of Alfyn’s chair. It tingles from their brief touch. “I’m gonna get lost. You know how it is, all that cider. Goes to a guy’s head.” He drops his voice into a suggestive, teasing cadence and, boldly, lets his hand fall to rest on Alfyn’s shoulder. “I think I need you.”

Alfyn is up on his feet in a blink, all coughs and averted eyes and eager, quick movements.

Well… good. There are worse things than eager.

They get in front of Therion’s door, and Alfyn stops up short, gazing down at his feet. “There,” he says, sounding uncertain and confused. “You didn’t get lost.”

“Thanks to you,” Therion drawls.

Alfyn bites his lip. He meets his eyes. He looks so conflicted, unsure and hopeful and nervous and so damn _hungry_. He waits for the demanding hands on him, the breaking of the dam, but the moment stretches long… and then longer. Alfyn is just looking at him. He isn’t going to do anything, Therion realizes, despite how badly he wants to. He’s worried he’s misread the entire situation, that it would be an insult, or worse, an invasion. He’s just going to stand there all night, confused and wanting, until Therion either takes the initiative or goes to bed.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, he leans down.

Therion tingles all the way down to the very tips of his toes when their lips meet. He can’t remember the last time he’s been kissed. He has to stand on his tiptoes, and even then he needs to use the lapels of Alfyn’s shirt to haul him down a bit, and it’s pretty damn messy, but it’s also enthusiastic and passionate and completely unpretentious. He knows he’s better off keeping his feet on the ground and his expectations tempered, _the next hit is always coming, don’t lie to yourself_ \-- but it’s oh so very easy to get swept away by how it feels when Alfyn wraps his arms around him so tight it’s like he’s scared to let go.

It’s easy to want all those things he’s taught himself he shouldn’t.

Alfyn breaks away. His breath is hot and moist and frantic against Therion’s upturned face. “Is that okay?” he asks breathlessly. “Is this… are we… I didn’t misunderstand, did I?”

“You’re good,” Therion says, reaching to throw the latch on his door. “You didn’t misunderstand shit.”

They stumble inward.

“Oh,” Alfyn breathes as Therion starts pulling off his clothes, unwinding his scarf, shucking his poncho. In the dark, his big, doelike eyes dart around uncertainly and he holds up his hands. “Wait, wait. Is… is this…” He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Are we…”

Therion stops, dropping his hands to his sides. Impatience swells in him, and he imagines all sorts of shit Alfyn might be thinking, might be about to say. He fights down the urge to throw him out into the hall, and hates the way his shirt leaves him half exposed as they stand there in the terrible quiet. “What?” he demands, his voice rough and harsh. “Did you misunderstand, after all?” _Put me out of my misery quick and easy._

Alfyn licks his lips, then catches his bottom one between his teeth. It’s strangely innocent. Sweet. “I just… no, that’s not...” He shakes his head. “That is, I ain’t never… done anything like this before, you know? Not with anybody. I kinda thought I might have more time to work up to this. So...” He smiles, nervously. It lights up the whole damn room, right to the corners. “So just… be patient with me. All right?”

Therion feels the corners of his mouth try and tug up, and he smooths them down firmly. None of that. “Sure,” he says. “It’s not too complicated, anyway. Just, you know… follow my lead.” And he laughs then, despite himself, stepping in closer. “You thought you had to tell me that you were new at this?” he teases, reaching for Alfyn’s belt and watching his breath hitch. “Like I didn’t already know?”

Alfyn gasps and flushes right down past his shirt collar, and Therion goes about trying to find out just how far down that blush goes. 

They’re on the bed soon after, both of them naked, and Alfyn doesn’t seem to know where to put his eyes, but Therion’s only challenge is how to see it all at once. This is a _good-looking man_, that’s for sure. His shoulders are vast and strong, his chest lightly furred and solid, the flat plane of his stomach covered in sections of rock-hard muscle. And his cock… yeah. The type of person Therion usually takes to bed isn’t so much to look at. He takes his time to get his eyeful.

Alfyn shoves him lightly at one shoulder, shaking his head. “Hey,” he grouses. “Don’t gimme that look. Makes a guy crawl outta his skin, getting stared at like that.”

“Sorry,” Therion says, ghosting his fingers over his abdomen. Granite. “Lay down,” he suggests.

Red-faced but eager, Alfyn obeys.

Therion straddles him. He gazes down at him, sweeping eyes over him. Yeah, it’s a sight, that’s for sure. He’s surprised when Alfyn brings his hands up, running them up his forearms and to his shoulders, all of his own accord.

“You’re really somethin’,” he says hoarsely.

Therion grimaces at the note of wonder and pleasure and _affection_ he hears in the other man’s voice. Don’t see something that isn’t there, don’t lie to yourself. This is a transaction, like it always is. Instead of getting caught up in silly dreams, appreciate the things that were undeniably there and real… like the hot, throbbing, line of Alfyn’s erection, which jumps in tune with the groan leaving his throat when Therion takes it into his hand.

He strokes, slowly at first, and Alfyn’s eyes flicker shut, his breath coming out quicker and tinged with deep, pleased noises of appreciation. It’s intense and validating, as always, to see the effects his touch can have on the person before him, watching the little fluctuations in expression and listening carefully to the music of his moans. His own mouth falls open to pant a bit as he works, and his hips roll down, seeking friction of his own.

It catches him off guard when Alfyn’s eyes fly open, boring into his. His hand stills. He feels awkward, suddenly. Embarrassed, even. When Alfyn’s lips curl into a big, goofy smile, his hackles fly up.

“What are you laughing at?” he asks, releasing his hold on his cock. “Look, I --”

Alfyn’s eyes widen. “Hey, what? What’s wrong?”

“If you’re thinking something,” Therion spits, flashes of a mocking grin and sharp, cruel eyes in his head, “then just fucking say it.”

“I was just thinkin’ that your hair glows in the moonlight,” Alfyn says, and the way he says it, all innocent and indignant, gods. Therion blinks at him in disbelief.

This guy can’t be real. The next blow is coming. This is all some sort of game, some sort of…

But he just looks up at him, his handsome face open and guileless, and Therion shakes his head. “You’re a weird guy,” he mutters. “You know that, right?”

Alfyn grins again, showing off all his teeth. His front two are crooked. “That’s me! But, uh, boy. I sure wish you hadn’t stopped. I, shucks, that sure did feel real good.”

Therion can’t help but laugh. So accommodating. “Right, sorry about that,” he mutters, and though his arousal has flagged somewhat, when he finds Alfyn just as hard and eager as ever, it sure is a shot in the arm. Alfyn sighs happily, his eyes drifting shut and a beatific little smile curled onto his lips, and Therion strokes him in long, even motions with a firm grip.

He’s huge. It’s a bit dizzying.

Soon, Alfyn’s gasping for air again, his face turned to the side as he moans, his eyes glazed and dark, his mouth open just slightly. Therion can’t help but look at him, really look, studying the stitch between his eyes, the tiny overlap of his two front teeth, the dark shadow of stubble along his chin and jaw, the little loose strands of hair plastered against his weathered skin by sweat. He notes how the corners of his eyes tighten every time his thumb moves over his tip, how a little gasp or groan escapes him. Maybe starts doing it a little more, just to get that reaction.

“Wh -- ah!” Therion interrupts his own question with a gasp of pleasure, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut as Alfyn begins to carefully work the both of them simultaneously. It is not fumbling or messy or overly enthusiastic. It is, shockingly enough, _good_. Extremely good. Therion chokes back a genuine, unguarded cry of pleasure, hips stuttering forward to meet his touch, and he hisses out a protest through clenched teeth. “I -- thought, ah, you liar! Said you’d never…”

“I haven’t,” Alfyn says, and he’s sitting up, now, his voice close and his body flush against him. He adjusts his grip, and Therion whimpers when he presses their cocks together and surrounds them both in one hand. “I just… you know.” He works them together. Therion gasps. Alfyn chuckles, and it’s not any sort of playful performative flirtation, but just that same friendly, slightly self-conscious little laugh he uses anywhere else. “I know how everything works... yeah?”

Therion almost laughs out loud. “Yeah,” he pants. “S-Seems like.” He remembers that he told Alfyn to follow his lead. That’s pretty funny, actually. This guy doesn’t need anyone to lead. He’s got it covered.

He had nearly turned this down to sit alone in this bed, clumsily rubbing one out and feeling utterly alone in the world as the darkness closed in around him. Now, instead, Alfyn wraps one arm around him and pulls him even closer as his fist works them together. His body is warm, solid, and deliriously real. The arm that pulls him close holds him as if scared he’s going to disappear. Therion finds his hands clutching tightly to this strange man’s muscled back, his face buried in the crook of his neck, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his hips rocking forward wildly into his clever grip. His heart thumps in his chest and in his head and in his cock, and his fevered mind imagines he feels an echo in Alfyn.

“C’mon,” Alfyn gasps against his ear, panting like he’s running a race. “C’mon, c’mon, I gotcha, I gotcha, come on…”

He can’t keep his mouth shut when he comes, no matter how hard he tries. Darius’s laughing voice comes to him in the haze. _You squeal like a little whore._

And then it’s over, just two sweaty, sticky bodies. The worst part.

He knows not to overstay his welcome by now, and he extricates himself quickly. He doesn’t want to ruin Alfyn’s impression of what just happens, because he’s thinking in his head now that he’d like to do it again. He was expecting halting and awkward, and instead he got expertise and skill. He’s wobbly on his feet and his spine is like a tingling, sparking noodle holding him together. He keeps thinking of Alfyn’s voice against his ear, hushed and desperate. It sticks out in his head. He’s not used to that sort of thing. The people he’s with, they usually don’t say much of anything other than grunting orders.

He’s got one leg in his pants when Alfyn calls out from the bed. “Hey… where you goin’?”

He stills. His heart jumps. He squashes hope. Don’t lie to yourself.

“Just thought I’d give you some space while you clear out,” he murmurs warily, his words feeling like marbles in his mouth.

“Oh,” Alfyn says. He sounds… disappointed. Bereft, even.

Dammit. How is a guy supposed to navigate this shit?

“I guess,” Alfyn continues, sitting up from his prone position. He runs a hand through the mess of his hair. His eyes are dark and soulful in the moonlight. “I guess if that’s what you want, uhm. Okay.”

And he looks so pathetic sitting there that, despite knowing better, Therion takes the bait.

“What do _you_ want?” he asks.

Just like that, he perks up like a dog. “Oh!” he says eagerly. “I mean… I want…” He bites his lip like a nervous ingenue, and then, shyly, pats the bed beside him. “That is, if you don’t _mind_, I… well, I’d sure love to just…” His cheeks are dark, his eyes big and hopeful. “Let me hold you for a little bit? Just a bit, I swear.”

Therion watches him warily. He looks so innocent, so hopeful. Is this some sort of trap? A trick, maybe? But that doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like Alfyn.

“You sure?” he asks warily, and his stomach performs a somersault at the eagerly with which Alfyn grins and nods, bobbing his head like he’s trying to dislodge it.

So that’s how Therion ends up curled against him, his heart pounding in his ears as he tries to navigate the situation. He’s hyper aware of every tiny movement he makes, of the stickiness of their bodies, of the sound of his breathing -- all the things that have gotten him kicked off before. He waits for Alfyn to realize that this is actually pretty annoying and change his mind.

Nothing this good can last, right?

But Alfyn nuzzles his hair, sighing blissfully. One arm comes around to wrap around him, pulling him even closer. “You’re so tiny,” he murmurs, all pleasantly marble-mouthed. “Feel like I could just lift you up with one hand… carry you around with me in my pack…” He trails off into nonsense, and, miraculously, his breath deepens into sleep.

Nestled against his side, safe in his embrace, Therion is almost afraid to breathe. Everytime he lets himself start to enjoy it, he thinks of every lesson he’s ever learned. He’s smarter than this. This is nothing, this is a fluke, and he’s an idiot if he thinks it’s anything more than a trap, a test. Don’t lie to yourself. Never lie to yourself.

But the night goes on, and nothing changes. The body against his stays solid and warm and real, and the rise and fall of Alfyn’s chest and the sound of his deep, even breathing is soothing and tempting. Let go, it encourages. Follow me down. It’s safe here, with me.

Don’t lie to yourself, he always says, and so, eventually, he has to admit that this might, at least for the moment, be real.

He relaxes, and lets his eyes drift shut.

The next blow doesn’t come.


End file.
